Positive
by gutsandglitter
Summary: After an unpleasant diagnosis, Mycroft insists on breaking up with Greg, while Greg insists on taking care of Mycroft.
1. Chapter 1

_Hey gang! Decided I wasn't done playing with Mycroft and Greg after all. Please R&R!_

_~B_

* * *

><p>Greg got into his car, slamming the door behind him.<p>

_That insufferable twat,_ he thought to himself. _That pompous horse's ass!_

He was seething as he whipped his car onto the street, traffic laws be damned. Fourteen months together and Mycroft has the nerve to sever things just like that.

"_I'm sorry Gregory, but I do not wish to continue seeing you."_

For fuck's sake, what did that even mean?

Greg snarled and swore as he hit a patch of traffic. Sherlock had been right, damn him. He had told Greg in that first week that he was just a bit of a rough for Mycroft, a man like Mycroft would never stay with a man like Greg. Too posh, too caught up in appearances. Well, he'd be free to focus on his appearances now. Find himself some poncy little wife named Mitzi or something like that. Never mind the fact Greg had loved him, and had somehow deluded himself into believing Mycroft loved him too.

He slammed a fist down on the steering wheel, hard enough to bruise the knuckles. He'd fallen for it, hook line and sinker. Idiot.

* * *

><p>Greg had never handled breakups well. When he was twelve and his first girlfriend Nancy had dumped him he had run home crying to his mum. When he was nineteen and had caught his first boyfriend Liam cheating on him, Greg had keyed Liam's car and put his fist through a plate glass window. Now that Mycroft had summarily kicked him to the curb, Greg had taken up smoking again. He stomped around the office, scaring interns and the other DI's alike. After two weeks of this, Sally became exasperated and made him leave work early.<p>

"You're worse than the freak, running around here hissing like an angry tomcat. Go home, have a drink, calm the fuck down."

Begrudgingly he did as was told, went home and had a drink. And then another. And then another. Within the space of an hour he had gotten himself properly pissed, drinking just about every alcoholic beverage in his flat. This did not make him feel any better, it just made the room spin and the floor more difficult to keep a firm grip on. He stared around his apartment dazedly until his eyes fixed on a framed picture in the bookcase. He took a few weaving steps towards it, grabbing it with the grace of a toddler.

It had been taken at John and Sherlock's wedding a few months before. It was a candid shot, Mrs. Hudson had been sneaking around trying to catch the guests unawares. She had succeeded with Mycroft and Greg, who had been having a very animated (and drunken) conversation on the lawn. Greg had been in the middle of dramatically rolling his eyes and gesturing heavenward with his champagne glass, Mycroft had been laughing uncontrollably and resting one hand on Greg's hip while wiping at the tears of mirth rolling down his face with the other.

Greg tried to grit his teeth but instead bit down hard on his tongue, drawing blood. He threw the picture across the room, taking satisfaction in the sound of breaking glass before staggering across the room and passing out on the couch.

* * *

><p>"You look like hell," Donovan commented.<p>

He groaned rubbed at his bleary eyes. It had been by the sheer grace of God he had woken up in time to go to work that morning, although he was seriously wishing he hadn't. His head was throbbing mercilessly and the goings-on in his stomach reminded him very much of the scene from Alien where the little creature burst out of the one man's torso.

"I can't decide which I'd wish for more: hangovers to be a legitimate medical excuse to qualify a sick day or homicidal maniacs who would have the decency to take a day off once in a while," he grumbled.

Sally snorted. "You know that freak is just going to make that headache worse."

"Nice try, but I want to catch this guy soon. Preferably in the next ten minutes, so that I can lapse into a coma in peace," Greg replied.

"It's not a 'guy' you're looking for," a familiar drawl said behind them.

Greg turned warily towards Sherlock and John.

"It's a female," he continued. "Girlfriend. Comes over on the premise of making him a nice salmon dinner, poisons his portion."

Before the Detective Inspector could ask how Sherlock had come to this conclusion, Sherlock rolled his eyes and pointed to the kitchen.

"Already looked, pan has debris from two filets, one dirty plate in the sink and the plate on top of the stack in the cupboard is damp suggesting it was recently washed; she tried unsuccessfully to make it look like she was never here. Really Lestrade, you really shouldn't have needed me for this, although I can see you're hungover so I'll forgive you this time."

Sherlock strode out of the room, coat billowing behind him. John watched after him in admiration. He turned back to the relieved Lestrade and the scowling Sally.

"I don't know why we don't just ask the cabbie to wait a minute, it's such a waste to have to get another one back," he joked dryly.

Greg nodded absentmindedly, Sally stalked out of the room.

John looked at him. "Can't say I blame you for getting pissed mate. I hope Mycroft wasn't drinking though, that's probably the last thing his system needs right now."

Greg furrowed his brow. "How'd you mean?"

John looked taken aback. "Well I mean it probably can't do any harm. I haven't exactly read up too much on it but it can't really help."

Greg's head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, what John was saying wasn't properly registering.

"Really can't help what? What're you on about?"

John paled. "He…hasn't told you?"

"The sodding bastard broke up with me," Greg snapped. "Didn't tell me shit except that he was done with me. What are you talking about?"

John's jaw quivered. "Well I- I don't know how to tell you this. Mycroft came into my office a few weeks back and they came back positive. He's got cancer Greg. Lymphoma."

Greg's head swam and he staggered backwards into a chair.


	2. Chapter 2

"Mycroft, open up in there!" Greg pounded on the oak-paneled door to the politician's flat.

The door opened slowly. Behind it stood Mycroft in one of his immaculate three piece suits. But, it wasn't Mycroft, not quite. He was paler than Greg remembered, slightly thinner. His eyes were flat and dull. Greg was completely taken aback. Had Mycroft looked like this two weeks ago? He couldn't have, Greg couldn't have missed this sort of alien fragility Mycroft exuded now.

"Detective Inspector, how may I help you?"

Greg winced. Were they really back to "Detective Inspector"?

He steeled himself and pushed past Mycroft into the familiar entryway. He had a brief flashback of one night he had come over after a particularly long day and Mycroft had pinned him to the door, showing him just how much he had been missed. Greg shook away the memory and turned back to his (former) lover.

"You can start by telling me why the hell you decided to keep your cancer diagnosis a secret from me!" he snarled.

Mycroft slowly closed the door and sighed. In that moment, he looked old. Older than Greg had ever seen him.

"Gregory, my medical issues are my business and I will be having a word with Doctor Watson about doctor-patient confidentiality."

"Mycroft, bloody hell!" Greg shouted. "Break-up or not, I still care about you. I want to know these things, I want to help."

"That's just it," Mycroft said quietly, crossing to the sofa and sitting down heavily. "I do not want you to care or worry about me. My prognosis is not pleasant and if it comes down to it I do not want you to be able to care less if I die."

Greg felt like he had been slapped across the face.

"My." He looked at the man on the couch who was trying very hard to not look at the police officer. "Mycroft." Still nothing.

He went to the sofa and knelt down beside the man. "Mycroft. I love you. You can't just hand down an executive order and make me stop loving you. I promise to be by your side through this thing whether you like it or not. You have my word on that."

Mycroft snorted. "You will do nothing of the sort. Gregory, your knowledge of this changes nothing. We are not together anymore nor will we be for the considerable future so this is really none of your business. I must ask you to leave now."

"Goddamnit Mycroft!" Greg cried, standing up and raking a hand through his hair. "You can't just push me around like one of your little mole people. I love you and I know you love me. You're so bloody stubborn!"

Mycroft blanched. "Isn't that a bit pot-and-kettle Inspector? Now if you would please kindly leave."

Greg closed in on him, eyes fiery. He bent so that their noses were almost touching and pressed his palms against the couch on either side of Mycroft, effectively pinning the other man. "You know what? You're right. But I'm probably just as hardheaded as you. Sometimes that worked for us and sometimes it didn't. But if you're going to stick to your guns on this one then fine, I won't fight you. Break my Goddamned heart, push me away and see if I care. But I just gave you my word that I would look after you and I am a man of my word. So whether you like it or not, I will be here."

There was a heated pause. Mycroft licked his lips nervously, unsure of what he was supposed to do.

After a few moments, Greg leaned back and nodded. "Glad we got that settled."

He turned and strode out the door, leaving a completely flabbergasted Mycroft in his wake.


	3. Chapter 3

Though he knew it would hurt his pride, Greg found himself dialing the familiar number.

She answered on the first ring. "Yes?"

"Anthea, I need a favor."

He was met with a deafening silence from the other end of the line, but he forged on.

"I know this sounds completely mental and that's because it is, but…I need to take care of Mycroft. I know he's got you and an army, literally, behind him, but I know he needs me. I have to be there for him."

"I'm not quite sure I understand," she said slowly. "You two are not together."

The words stung him and he sighed. "I know, I know. But Anthea, I love him. Even if he wants nothing to do with me, I'd still go to the ends of the earth for him."

The line was quiet again, and Greg worried for a moment that she might have hung up.

"I'll have you what you need in about an hour," she said coolly before the line clicked off.

Greg let out the breath he had been unconsciously holding and slumped back in his chair.

His body had been running on sheer adrenaline up until this moment. The grim reality of the day hit him hard, and a few tears found themselves sliding down the weathered plane of his cheeks.

Mycroft, his Mycroft, had cancer. He could be dying. The worst part was, he was so worried about Greg that he had pushed him away, convinced himself that he had to go through with this alone. It pained Greg to think of Mycroft alone in his flat while his body fell apart with him trapped inside. Greg had to keep his word. Mycroft could not go through with this alone.

Greg nodded slightly and leaned back into the worn plush of the chair as he closed his eyes.

He fell into a light doze and found himself lost in a memory from nearly fourteen months before.

_Mycroft had brought Greg lunch, and they were laughing over sandwiches about something Anderson had said that had made Sherlock pout like a small child. Since their first meeting at a crime scene, Mycroft had been finding various reasons to drop in on Greg in his office. It had been a little over a month, and Greg had come to look forward to these visits. He was fascinated by the other man. The Mycroft he had met at the crime scene was not the Mycroft who came to his office. Inside Greg's office, Mycroft lit up. He was warm and understanding, and he had a dry sense of humor that often left Greg in stitches of laughter. _

_As he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes with a calloused knuckle, it struck him how he and Mycroft barely spoke outside the office. When they did it was always Politician Mycroft, cold and important. _

"_You know, I saw you lurking on the edge of the scene. You could have said hello. What, you ashamed of us being mates?" Greg had meant for this to be a joke, but it obviously hit a nerve. _

_Mycroft stilled. "Gregory," he said quietly._

_This startled Greg. As much as he had insisted otherwise, up to this point Mycroft had always referred to Greg as "Detective Inspector". _

"_I would never in a thousand years be ashamed to be seen with you. But I am afraid of you, especially in public."_

"_Er, how'd you mean?"_

_Mycroft cleared his throat and picked at the hem of his jacket. _

"_Gregory I-I feel comfortable around you. When I'm with you in this office, I feel as if I can be myself, someone I haven't been in a very long time. I've spent years cultivating a public persona, and you manage to break it down in seconds." He looked up at Greg from under a pair of surprisingly long lashes. "You make me feel vulnerable Gregory. Vulnerable people in my position get hurt."_

_Greg was stunned by this confession and the warm feeling it caused in the pit of his stomach. After a few moments, the feeling returned to his legs. Slowly, he stood and circled around the desk. He bent down so that he was at eye-level with Mycroft, placing one hand on each of the arm rests of his chair. _

"_I promise I will never hurt you Mycroft. And come hell or high water, I will not let anyone else hurt you either."_

_He leaned in slowly, and placed a chaste kiss on Mycroft's thin lips. He pulled back slightly afterwards to look into Mycroft's eyes, silently asking if this was alright. Mycroft looked dazed for a moment before leaning forward and kissing Greg._

Greg awoke to a sharp rapping on the door. He leapt from his chair and jogged to the door. When he opened it, there was no one around. A large black three-ring binder sat in front of the door. Greg picked it up tentatively, surprised by it's bulk.

He closed the door behind him and walked back over to his chair, afraid of the contents of the book.

He stared at it for several moments before turning the cover slowly, as if afraid it would bite him. It didn't bite him, not physically at least. He wished it had, wished this had been some elaborate joke and that Anthea and Mycroft would jump out from behind the sofa yelling "surprise" before Mycroft knelt down beside Greg and told him he was daft for thinking they could ever be parted.

Instead, he was faced with a page of lab results containing enough technical jargon to make his head swim. This was it then, this was real. His eyes threatened to water again but he snapped them shut, forcing himself to breathe and concentrate. When he was sure his emotions were in check he opened his eyes and flipped to the next page which explained what lymphoma was and what the methods of treatment Mycroft's doctor was proposing would involve. He read the binder cover-to-cover, and found himself finishing just as the room was beginning to fill with the first hints of morning light.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four days later…**

Greg pulled up to Mycroft's building at 8:20am, as per Anthea's precise instructions. Greg was convinced that woman was a saint – he wasn't quite sure what exactly her job entailed but he had suddenly found himself with more than enough leave days to keep up with Mycroft's treatment schedules.

He killed the engine to his most prized possession. The 1978 Fiat Spyder was constantly breaking down and needing new parts and Mycroft had always nagged him about how unsafe convertibles were, but it had been his first car and he wouldn't have traded it for the world.

He made his way up the familiar staircase and up to Mycroft's door. He rapped his knuckles against it and it swung open almost immediately. Mycroft was looking down at his Blackberry and it took him several moments to register the figure standing before him.

"Gr- Detective Inspector. I am afraid I have a flight to catch, I'm leaving the country for several days."

"Bollocks. I know all about where you're going, I'm your chauffer. Worked it all out with Anthea too so don't try going around me on this one. And you can cut the Detective Inspector stuff too," Greg said, feigning a confidence he did not possess.

Mycroft's expression was pained. "Gregory-"

Greg held up a hand. "Mycroft I'm stubborn as hell and this is my version of respecting your wishes. Just treat me like one of your usual lackeys if that makes you feel better."

Mycroft still looked unconvinced, but let out a small sigh. "Very well then."

Greg allowed a smile to ghost across his face. "Well then, this way gov'na. It's a bee-youtiful day out today it is," he said, tipping an imaginary hat and laying on a cheesy fake cockney accent.

Mycroft pressed his lips into a thin line as he stepped past Greg into the hall, but Greg could swear he saw his eyes crinkle slightly in that way they did when a grin threatened to spread across his face. Greg took this as a small win as he closed the door behind them.

The ride over was silent but uneventful, Greg concentrated on the road while Mycroft tapped away on his Blackberry.

Greg shuddered as they entered the hospital, memories of his Da's battle with prostate cancer flooded his senses. He'd stayed there about a week before the doctors had declared him a lost cause, he passed away shortly after that. Mycroft seemed utterly at ease, striding through the halls of the London Regional Cancer Program like he owned them (which, Greg realized, he probably could, to some degree).

The check-in process was a blur. Greg only understood about half of what was being said. He was able to figure out that Mycroft would be going into surgery the next day, and if all went well he would be receiving his first chemotherapy dose by the end of the week. Greg blanched at the thought, but Mycroft nodded unfazed, as if he was being told the weather forecast for the week. Greg had never wanted a cigarette more in his life. The irony of craving carcinogens in a cancer treatment facility did not escape him.

Greg tried to focus on what was being said, he really did. Maybe it was a defense mechanism, maybe it was boredom, but he found himself slipping into another memory.

_As much as they both wanted to go out on an actual date, their schedules had refused to line up in the three weeks since the kiss. Mycroft had only been able to slip into Greg's office once, to tell him he had to go to South Africa for an undisclosed amount of time. They had shared a short kiss, and just like that Mycroft was gone. Greg felt foolish. To say that Mycroft was out of his league would be the understatement of the century, Greg could only barely hope to have a one night stand with the man let alone a real date. He sighed as he meandered the Fiat through the back roads of London on his way home from work. It was well past eleven, and the idea of going home to his miserable empty little flat just seemed more depressing than usual. He had gotten used to living alone after the divorce, had enjoyed reliving his bachelor days for a while, but now he was starting to think of the word "bachelor" as synonymous with "lonely". After nearly an hour he realized he was just putting off the inevitable and wasting a great deal of petrol, so he made his way back home. _

_He fumbled with his keys at the top of the stairs, finally finding the correct one and slipping it into the lock. He was startled by the way it slid in easily, the door had not been locked. He internally cursed his own forgetfulness and pushed it open. _

_His jaw dropped at the sight in his living room. There was Mycroft Holmes, fast asleep on the sofa. There were two plates of untouched Chinese takeaway on the cluttered coffee table, and an old episode of A Bit of Fry and Laurie was playing quietly on the telly. _

_Greg couldn't help but grin. He took a step forward, his foot catching the squeaky floorboard and making an unsettling creak. _

_Mycroft's eyes shot open and he sat straight up. His back made a popping sound and he winced in pain. "Ah, oh. Gregory. Erm, I ah, I had thought you might enjoy some dinner. I know you worked late and didn't take a break for dinner…" his voice trailed off meekly. _

_Greg's grin broadened. "You're completely mental, you know that?"_

_Mycroft didn't know how to take this. His brows mashed together and he started to rise to his feet. "This was terribly foolish and presumptuous of me. I apologize, I'll just be leaving."_

_Greg cocked his head and deftly blocked Mycroft's exit. "But then who will I share this spread with?" he asked coyly. _

_Mycroft looked even more confused. _

_Greg rolled his eyes. "For a genius you can be rather daft can't you?" He stepped forward, planting a small kiss on Mycroft's cheek. "This is lovely, it really is. Thank you."_

_Mycroft relaxed finally, a small smile crossed his face._

_Greg flopped down on the couch, pulling one of the plates onto his lap. Mycroft sat down next to him, gingerly picking up the other. _

"_I won't even ask how you managed to know all my favorites," Greg said dryly, popping a piece of broccoli beef into his mouth._

_Mycroft quirked his lips. "If I told you that, my dear inspector, I'm afraid I would have to kill you."_

_Greg choked on the piece of broccoli in his mouth, swallowing quickly before dissolving into a fit of laughter._

"Inspector."

Greg blinked. "Er, yeah?" Mycroft and his doctor were standing and staring at him.

"I believe your work here is done," Mycroft said flatly, not looking Greg in the eye.

"Oh." Greg couldn't think of anything else to say. "Okay."

He stood awkwardly.

"Well, thank you Doctor," he said, shaking the Doctor's hand. He turned to the politician, who had once again become lost in his Blackberry.

"Alright My, I guess I'll come by and see you after the surgery tomorrow, yeah?"

Mycroft pursed his lips and said nothing, something Greg had learned to take for a reluctant "yes" in Mycroft-speak.


	5. Chapter 5

Greg balanced his briefcase in one hand while fiddling with his mobile in the other. Anthea had texted him Mycroft's room number and gotten him the day off, but even she couldn't get him out of the mountain of paperwork the briefcase contained. It was Sherlock's fault really; he had forcibly tackled a little old lady he had thought was his suspect. The higher-ups didn't like that sort of behavior.

Greg found the message he was looking for and began making his way to the room. The fine leather handle of his briefcase was soft against the rough plane of his palm.

_Greg raised his eyebrows as he pulled the briefcase out of the tissue paper-lined box. The leather was buttery smooth and had obviously cost about as much as the new radiator Greg had put in the Fiat the week before. _

_ "Wow, My. I don't know what to say."_

_ Mycroft's face fell. "You don't like it."_

_ "No, it's great. But I mean, this is way too much. We've only been seeing each other for a little while. I can't accept this."_

_ Mycroft bristled. "Gregory, you need a new briefcase. Your current one is falling apart at the seams, literally. It's your birthday and it's my duty as your- er…"his voice trailed off as he tried to find a title befitting their relationship._

_ Greg was at a loss for that one too. Boyfriend seemed childish, lover seemed pompous. _

_ "As yours," Mycroft said quietly. "That's what I am. I am yours - mind, body, and soul."_

_ Greg's heart skipped a beat. "Now that is the greatest birthday present I could ever have received," he said, leaning in to kiss Mycroft. _

Greg stepped off the lift at the fourth floor and was greeted with a familiar yet exhausted face.

Anthea's expression softened when she saw him. "Hey Greg," she said softly. There was an awkward pause before she lifted her arms, silently asking for a hug.

Greg obliged, wrapping his arms around her and soothingly rubbing her back.

She sighed then stepped back, regaining her usual composure. "Surgery went longer than expected but they feel it was successful. He's still under right now and will be for sometime. I've been keeping an eye on him because I wouldn't trust a single one of these orderlies farther than I could throw them. Actually, less than that," she said, flexing her biceps slightly.

"You look exhausted. How long have you been awake?"

She glanced at her delicate gold wristwatch. "Fifty two hours and nineteen minutes," she said flatly.

Greg shifted on his feet. "Well I was planning on sitting with him for a while. I'm not sure how far you could throw me, but I think I've proved myself pretty reliable when it comes to Mycroft. Why don't you go home and get some sleep while I hold down the fort?"

She quirked an eyebrow. "He told me explicitly not let you into that room. I've only ever defied his wishes once before and that was during a hostage crisis in Guatemala." She looked Greg up and down for a moment. "I turned out to be right then, and I trust I am right now. If you prove my judgment wrong I will have you summarily fired from the Met and will make sure you will never work on any police force ever again." She nodded pertly and walked into the lift, the doors slid closed behind her.

Greg stood dumbfounded, but found himself slightly emboldened by Anthea's speech. He also found himself wondering what the hell had happened in Guatemala, but knew he would never find out the proper answer to that one.

He glanced around for room 459 but realized Anthea's sending him the room number was redundant. She could have just said "fourth floor, only room with an armed guard posted outside."

He walked up to the guard, ready to show him his Met badge, but the man waved him in. He stepped into the room tentatively. He felt a lump form in his throat as his eyes found their way to Mycroft. He was pale, paler than Greg had ever seen him before. There were dark circles under his eyes and he had all sorts of tubes and monitors attached to him. Thick bandages were swathed around his neck. He was asleep as Anthea had said, but it wasn't true sleep. Greg had always loved watching Mycroft sleep, how peaceful and soft he looked. Now he just looked weak. He looked so small in the hospital bed, Greg could scarcely believe that this was the same man who could topple a dictator with a phone call or make presidents do his bidding with a single look.

Greg walked over to the bed and dropped his briefcase beside it. He sat down on the edge of the mattress and picked up one of Mycroft's hands, the one that didn't have a pulse monitor on it. It felt cold but familiar. He ran the tip of his index finger across the knuckles, circling the half-moon scar on his thumb that Mycroft had sworn he had gotten during a knife fight with Hugo Chavez.

"Oh Mycroft," he said softly, pressing the knuckles to his lips as his body began to tremble. Tears rolled down his cheeks and he clutched Mycroft's hand for dear life. After a few minutes of abject sobbing he began to hyperventilate, he forced himself to calm down and resume his natural breathing. He inhaled deeply and lifted a corner of Mycroft's blanket to dab at his eyes. He chuckled to himself; thank God Mycroft had been unconscious for that little display. He felt a small pang as he realized he really shouldn't be holding Mycroft's hand, remembering the man's wishes. He sighed softly and kissed the knuckles once more before laying the pale hand back down on the bed.

When Mycroft awoke four hours later, Greg was placidly dealing with his piles of paperwork at a makeshift desk.

"Morning sleepyhead," Greg said with a faked grin.

Mycroft's eyes watered in pain as his gingerly lifted a hand to his bandaged throat. He grimaced.

Greg was concerned. "Need me to call a nurse?"

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. Greg darted out into the hallway, grabbing the first nurse he saw and steering her into the room. She checked his charts and gave him an injection of something that made him fall back asleep. The last thing he saw before sleep enveloped his conscious was Greg, standing at the edge of the bed and looking worried. He woke several hours later with Anthea by his bedside.

"He's gone," she said, not looking up from her Blackberry. "He was here for eight hours straight. I made Doctor Watson come get him and take him to the pub."

Mycroft's face relaxed and his eyes slipped closed once more.

"I just, I just don't get it," Greg slurred, spilling a bit of lager on the wood bar. "John, I'd take a bullet for that man. Actually, I nearly did. Remem-remember that one time?"

"Yeah, I remember," John said, smirking as he raised his glass to his lips. "You're quite a lightweight aren't you?" he asked as Greg's head wobbled.

Greg rolled his eyes and flopped an arm across the bar. "Psh, I'm fine."

"Oi, can you two lovebirds keep it down? Trying to watch the match over 'ere," snarled a burly looking man a few stools down.

"W'assat?" Greg asked, spinning his stool around to face the man.

"You heard me, damn puff," the man growled.

Before John could react, Greg was on his feet and lunging at the larger man. The man had Greg on his back in one swift movement and began pummeling him, fists flying as Greg squirmed under his bulk.

"Get off him!" John cried, yanking on the larger man's leather jacket.

Suddenly the bartender was there, yanking the two apart. "Get the hell outta here, both of you!"

John helped Greg up off the floor ad towards the door. Greg winced, already feeling the damage the man had inflicted upon him. He stared at the ground, forcing his feet to keep moving forward. He watched as the hardwood floors turned to pavement beneath the soles of his scuffed shoes.

"How did she-?" John asked, causing Greg to glance up. Before them was the familiar black towncar, idling patiently at the curb. Greg began to chuckle, but stopped as he felt a pang of pain in his bruised ribs. "That woman needs to be knighted," he muttered under his breath.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thanks to the lovely Micaela for beta-ing!_

* * *

><p>Greg sat up, a cold sweat drying on his brow. He panted for a few moments, orienting himself. He was in bed, fully clothed, and his head was pounding. He grimaced, remembering his night of inebriation. He'd have to thank John for getting him to bed, as humiliating as it was.<p>

Gingerly, he threw his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up. He felt every punch he had taken the night before, and walking to the bathroom seemed extraordinarily difficult. Once there, he got a good look at himself in the mirror. His right eye was bloodshot and had an ugly black and blue ring beneath it. He hadn't had a black eye since Uni. He sighed and resigned himself to getting cleaned up for the hospital.

Greg tapped his knuckles lightly against the door before entering.

Anthea glanced up from a book of Russian history, her faithful Blackberry nowhere in sight. She smiled warmly at him.

"I thought you could use a coffee," Greg said, extending the cup towards her.

She took it gratefully.

"So, how's sleeping beauty?" Greg asked, turning his attentions to the man in the bed.

She shrugged. "Same. They keep telling me that it's normal to basically sleep for a few days what with the surgery and the drugs they've been giving him. I keep trying to explain that Mr. Holmes is not what one would call "normal" and in the five years I've worked for him he hasn't slept more than six hours at a time but they won't listen." She smiled weakly up at Greg. "I know I'm being overly sentimental, especially since his line of work puts him in situations with worse odds of survival than the doctors are giving him now but…" she trailed off.

"Hey," Greg said quickly. "He's Mycroft Bloody Holmes, he's too stubborn to die."

Anthea smirked and stood. "Very true," she said as she smoothly exited the room.

Greg walked over to the bed and perched on the edge, laying a hand across one of Mycroft's. He wished for a moment that their positions could be reversed, that he could be the one in the bed while Mycroft would be the one able to come and go.

Mycroft's life was worth more than Greg's miserable existence, Greg thought to himself. People depended on My, he was an incredible man. Greg on the other hand was a gay middle-aged copper - someone not worth much in the grand scheme of things, he thought bitterly.

Maybe they would still be together if it had been Greg who had fallen ill, although Mycroft did not do well around sick people. Greg had learned that a few months before when he had caught the flu.

_He had been feeling rotten all morning. His head was pounding and his sinuses felt plugged and tight. The nausea had hit him like a train; one minute he was doing paperwork and the next he was kneeling on the floor of the gents retching violently. Hardheaded as he was, he knew he couldn't stay at work. He laid on the cool tile for several minutes before he felt well enough to drive himself home, fortunately the Fiat decided to be cooperative that day and he made it home without incident. He staggered up the stairs to his flat, teeth chattering with fever. After what seemed like an eternity, he fell into his bed and tucked the covers up to his chin, falling instantly into an uneasy sleep. _

_ He awoke several hours later to the feeling of cold hands running across his face. _

_ "Oi, what the-"he cried, sitting up rapidly enough to make the room spin. His eyes blearily focused on the tall figure standing by the door, Mycroft. He turned slightly to the short man who had been touching his face. _

_ "Ah, Gregory," Mycroft said, as if this was the most normal situation in the world. "This is Doctor Bradley, one of the best physicians in the country. He will be taking care of you."_

_ Greg groaned and flopped back on the pillows. "I'm fine, I really am."_

_ The doctor and Mycroft snorted in unison. _

_ "We'll see about that," the doctor said, sticking a thermometer under Greg's tongue. _

_ Greg pouted at Mycroft, who chuckled. "Really Gregory, you are quite ill from what Anthea has gathered. Allow me to take care of you."_

_ "I wnt mnd you tnking care o me," Greg mumbled around the thermometer. "Is dis guy I wanna huwt."_

_ Mycroft frowned. "This is me taking care of you. Don't speak, you'll ruin the temperature."_

_ Greg reached out a hand towards Mycroft, making a pantomime grab for him. _

_ Mycroft shifted uneasily on his feet, clasping his hands behind his back and looking down. "I'm afraid I cannot actually come near you, my position is not one where I might risk illness."_

_ Greg swore loudly but it was obscured by the thermometer. Mycroft tutted._

_ "I will be in the living room doing paperwork. Let me know if you need anything."_

_ Greg grumbled and begrudgingly let the doctor look over him. After a few minutes it was decided that his fever was not too high and he just needed to sleep it off. Doctor Bradley gave him some pills and said he would be back in the morning. Moments after taking the pills Greg fell back asleep._

_ He dreamed he was on a case, chasing a suspect down the alleys of London. Though he couldn't see the suspect anymore, his feet knew instinctively where he had to go. As he ran it became harder and harder to see, and his feet began to stick with every step making it hard to keep running. He knew he had to keep going, the stakes on this one were high. But then his right foot wouldn't lift off the ground. He pulled and tugged at it but it wouldn't budge, by this time his left foot was stuck as well. He opened his mouth and let out a scream. No one came, so he screamed again for help._

_ "Gregory. Gregory!" Mycroft shook Greg's shoulders. The man was burning up and babbling incoherently. To make matters worse, Doctor Bradley wasn't answering his mobile. Mycroft would have his license revoked once this was all over with._

_ Greg opened his bloodshot eyes, glazed over with fever. They scanned over Mycroft's face without a hint of recognition._

_ "Gregory, your fever is spiking," Mycroft said, pulling the blankets back._

_ Greg moaned and tried to pull the blankets back over himself. Mycroft sighed and pressed his hand to Greg's forehead. It felt dangerously hot, Mycroft needed to get the fever down. He bit his lip as a rivulet of sweat ran over Greg's brow. _

_ He sighed and stood up, putting a hand under Greg's back and another under his knees and lifting him up. Greg groaned and pressed his face into Mycroft's chest. Mycroft strained under the weight but managed to get him to the bathroom where he laid the man in the tub and quickly undressed him before turning the water on as cold as it would go. Greg wailed and squirmed, Mycroft sat on the edge of the tub and held him still as the bathtub filled. Greg's teeth chattered, but as Mycroft began to gently rub his neck and shoulders he stilled, leaning into the familiar touch. _

_ After about a half hour, Greg's cheeks began to regain their normal color and his forehead felt much less fiery. He had fallen asleep with his cheek pressed against Mycroft's thigh; the politician hardly had the heart to move him. _

Greg took his time driving home from the hospital. He drove in aimless circles around the city, letting the purr of the engine drown out the thoughts rattling around his skull. As usual, his circles got smaller and smaller until he was just driving circles around his block. Prolonging the inevitable, he picked up his regular order from the Chinese restaurant at the corner before resigning himself to going home.

He trudged up the stairs and jammed the key into the lock. He pushed the door open and stood for a moment surveying the apartment. It was dingy and messy; he hadn't cleaned in over a month. He sighed, dropping the takeaway on the counter. Suddenly he didn't have much of an appetite. He dug around in the cupboard for some cleaning supplies and got to work in tidying up the flat. Old newspapers and empty takeaway containers were tossed, the counters and table surfaces were scrubbed, and he even decided to do a bit of Hoovering.

It was soothing, Greg felt calmer than he had in weeks. He began to sing to himself, something he remembered from when his grandmother Lestrade insisted he learn French. He'd been a reluctant pupil so his conversational French was pathetic at best, but he had managed to remember just about every song Edith Piaf had ever recorded.

"_Non rien de rien. Non, Je ne regrette rien. Car ma vie, car mes joies – Aujourd'hui ca commence avec toi…"_

Not that he was a hundred percent sure what the words meant, but they did sound pretty.

He pushed the vacuum around the corner of the arm chair, squeezing the machine into the tight space. He jumped at the rough grinding sound, turning off the machine quickly and yanking it back. He crouched down and peered behind the chair. It took him several moments to understand what he was looking at, but once he did he couldn't help but laugh.

The grinding sound had been the sound of broken glass in the vacuum bag. He reached behind the chair and withdrew the photo from the wreckage of its frame - the consequence of his drunken fit weeks before. He smoothed the picture, gazing at the frozen memory. He had to smile; as bleak as things were now, he and Mycroft had been happy once. He placed the photo on the coffee table before setting about cleaning up the broken glass and twisted remains of the frame. He really had to stop drinking so much.


	7. Chapter 7

_Thanks to the lovely Micaela for beta-ing!_

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><p>"You do realize I have several people being paid to sit around and do nothing while you insist on carrying on with this charade?" Mycroft said in his pseudo-irritated voice as he shakily knotted his tie.<p>

Greg grinned. "And I have a team pulling overtime back at the Yard while receiving no extra financial compensation so that I may carry on with this charade. Capitalism, eh?"

Mycroft couldn't hide the smirk this brought to his face, though he made a very valiant effort to. He had been given another round of chemotherapy that morning, but you wouldn't have known it by his appearance. Other than the faint trembling in his hands and his ghostly pallor, he looked completely normal. Greg could almost forget about the chemo port hidden beneath the smart waistcoat.

"There now," Mycroft said as he pulled on his suit jacket. He stood up and surveyed the room he had inhabited for nineteen days. "Shall we be off?"

Greg nodded. "Sure, Fiat's down in the lot."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "Really Gregory, you ought to have a sensible car. You know the statistics of accident survival in convertibles as well as I, if it were to flip you would have better odds in an oversized biscuit tin than that contraption. You really should sell the thing."

It was the argument they had been having since the very beginning, Greg's car was the bane of Mycroft's existence. Despite the fact Greg could drive about as well as the Stig from Top Gear, Mycroft was absolutely convinced he would crash into a building and decapitate himself. As stupid as it was, Greg loved that car. It was the only thing he had never been willing to compromise with Mycroft about.

"Yeah well, who are you to tell me what to do now?" Greg challenged.

It was a dirty thing to say and Greg regretted it the moment he said it. He couldn't help but take some satisfaction from the shocked look that crossed Mycroft's face before it returned to its usual stony countenance. He knew it was childish and cruel to bite at the sickly man, but the pain and frustration from the past few weeks had chosen to take that form for their catharsis.

"No one," Mycroft whispered, his words as brittle as tinder.

It was petty, but after their silent drive back to Mycroft's flat Greg did not visit the man for several days. Mycroft was just on bed rest (which meant working from home in Mycroft-speak) Greg reasoned, there was nothing he could do that Anthea hadn't already done. He would be fine without Greg for a few days.

Fortunately there had been a string of high-profile assaults recently that his team had been assigned to cover (although Greg had to chastise himself for thinking of the crime rash as fortunate for anyone) that kept his attention. Tired of Holmesean behavior, he had sworn he would not call Sherlock in to investigate this one. By day nine of digging through mountains of paperwork and doing countless interviews with slimy politicians even Sally was begging Greg to call "the freak" and get it over with. But no, Greg was determined, and on day eleven Greg found the restaurant receipts placing the Swedish ambassador within a block of four of the assaults as they happened. The mousy little man was hauled in for questioning and broke down immediately; confessing to hiring thugs to attack men from the embassy he thought his wife might have been cheating on him with.

Greg was proud of himself and his team, they had the case wrapped up almost immediately.

"Drinks on me at Oliver's," he said to his team, who let out a deafening whooping cheer.

He grabbed his coat from behind his desk, grabbing his mobile off the desk as it beeped.

**8:00 chemo appt.**

**Be at the flat at 7:10.**

**-A**

Greg groaned, he had forgotten about Mycroft's appointment the next morning. He looked out the window of his office at his bright-faced team, very much in need of a pleasant evening. And Mycroft seemed to be doing well without him, wasn't he?

**Could I possibly skip tomorrow?**

**Post-case celebration**

**Will probably be hungover.**

**-GL**

He knew how silly that sounded, but in that moment he did not care. He deserved a night to treat himself. Her reply was swift.

**Jerome will take him.**

**I must insist you retrieve him after.**

**11 sharp.**

**-A**

Greg quirked an eyebrow, but he knew better than to argue with the femme fatale. She could easily kill him without ever looking up from her Blackberry, he was sure of it. And in her and Mycroft's world, an "insistence" was as good as a government mandate. Oh well, he thought. Hangover or not, sleeping past 11 wasn't an option anyway.

Or so he thought. He blearily opened his eyes the next morning to the sound of his screeching alarm clock. It had seemed silly to set it for 10, but now it sounded like a death knell. He really needed to stop drinking so much.

He cleaned himself up a bit and drove to the hospital. Mycroft had been given two rounds of chemotherapy already and had suffered minimal symptoms, so Greg wasn't worried.

But as soon as Mycroft got in the car, Greg's worrying kicked into overdrive. Mycroft's eyes were gazed over and some of his gingery hair was stuck to his brow with sweat. He looked positively green around the gills and his right hand twitched in his lap.

"My, you alright?"

Mycroft nodded, keeping his eyes straight ahead.

"I'll remind you I have a no vomiting in the Fiat rule I take very seriously," Greg said, half-joking.

"I'm fine," Mycroft said, his voice like sandpaper. "Just drive."

Greg obliged, taking the quickest route he knew back to Mycroft's flat. As soon as Greg pulled up to the curb, Mycroft threw open his door and retched into the gutter. Greg was somewhat impressed with how neatly the man got sick, not getting so much as the tiniest drop on the car. After a minute Mycroft pulled out his pocket square and dabbed at his mouth before removing his seatbelt and exiting the car. Greg furrowed his brow and made to follow, but Mycroft stopped him with a gesture of his hand.

"I'll be fine, just need to clear my system so to speak," Mycroft wheezed.

Greg frowned. "Are you sure?"

"Perfectly normal side effect."

"Uh-huh." Greg was unconvinced, but from the look on Mycroft's face he knew he wasn't getting past the front door. He sighed. "Alright, but I'll come back in a few hours to check on you, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded quickly as his eyes bulged slightly and he pressed the pocket square to his lips before turning on heel and nearly sprinting for the building. Greg winced and shook his head before getting back into the car.

"My?" Greg called. No reply. He tiptoed into the flat. Mycroft hadn't answered the door when he had knocked; Greg had been forced to use the spare key he still had. He stood awkwardly in the hall, unsure of what to do. He held a bouquet in his hands – calla lilies, Mycroft's favorite. He had said so on one of their trips to Holmes Manor.

"_Calla lilies," Mycroft said, fondling one of the snow white blossoms. "It's funny, they look so delicate yet they can thrive in almost any climate. And once you've planted them, don't even dream of getting rid of them. No matter how much you cut them back they always return stronger than ever."_

_ "Hmm, sounds like a quality a Holmes would admire – being an insistent pest," Greg quipped. "You're far too predictable Mycroft."_

_ "Am I?" Mycroft asked with a quirk of his brow. He glanced around slyly before pulling Greg behind an old oak tree and kissing him deeply._

_ He pulled his head back several moments later and began to go to work on kissing Greg's neck._

_ Greg moaned lightly as Mycroft's lips brushed against the sensitive spot behind his ear. "Okay, maybe not that predictable," he murmured into the hollow of Mycroft's ear._

Greg wandered into the bedroom. "My?" he called again. He tossed the flowers onto Mycroft's dresser and crept towards the bathroom door which was slightly ajar. He nudged it. "My?"

There was Mycroft, head resting on the smooth porcelain rim of the toilet. His hair was mussed and his tie was askew, his jacket and waistcoat had been discarded already. He cracked his eyes open slightly and let out a little moan when he saw Greg. A tear rolled down his cheek.

Greg crossed to the man and knelt down. "Hey," he whispered softly, pushing a small tuft of hair off Mycroft's sweaty forehead.

"So tired," Mycroft mumbled.

Greg nodded sympathetically. "Do you need to stay in here for a while longer or do you feel up to getting into bed?"

"Bed," Mycroft whispered, but didn't move a muscle.

"Need a hand?"

Mycroft closed his eyes tightly and nodded. Greg's heart ached.

"Okay, up we go," he said, draping one of Mycroft's arms across his shoulders and hoisting him into a standing position. They shuffled to the bedroom where Mycroft laid tentatively across the bed. Greg rummaged through the dresser for a pair of pajamas, which he handed to Mycroft.

"I'll go get you some water," he said, giving the man some privacy.

He went into the kitchen and got a glass of water. For good measure, he also grabbed one of the large cooking pots from the cupboard in case Mycroft needed to be sick again.

When he returned to the bedroom Mycroft had gotten the pajama trousers on and was working on the last two buttons on the shirt. He looked up at Greg appreciatively when the detective set the glass and the pot beside him. Greg turned to go back to the kitchen to look for some crackers or something he could get Mycroft to eat later. He stopped at the door when he heard Mycroft say something.

"What?" Greg asked, turning back towards the bed.

"Calla lilies," Mycroft repeated. He looked at Greg in awe.

Greg shrugged his shoulders. "Give me some credit here My. I do know your favorite flower."

Mycroft continued to look at him. "Yes, you do. Of course you do." His face fell and his eyes clenched shut again. "Oh Gregory, I'm so sorry. I-" he didn't finish that thought, the sentence dissolved into soft sobs.

"Hey, hey," Greg said, walking closer to the bed. "It's okay."

Mycroft snorted slightly, were the situation any different Greg would have laughed out loud at such an undignified sound coming from Mycroft Holmes but it was just too heartbreaking right then.

"I've acted like a complete ad utter bastard and you've been nothing but kind to me. Really Gregory, I don't deserve having someone like you in my life." He looked up at Greg through tear-laced lashes.

Greg smiled lightly. "Nah, I drink too much and I can be ornery as hell when I want to be. I think we're pretty evenly matched."

Mycroft looked down for a moment before tentatively reaching for one of Greg's hands. Greg held his breath as the nimble fingers became entwined with his own in an achingly familiar way. Mycroft brought the clasped hands to his mouth and placed a trail of soft kisses across Greg's rough knuckles.

"Oh My," he whispered, reaching his other hand up to stroke the sallow tear-streaked cheek before him. Mycroft's eyelids slid closed.

After a few moments, Greg broke the silence. "Scoot over."

Mycroft obliged, making room for him. Greg slid into the bed and pulled Mycroft into a firm embrace. Mycroft looked up at him, his gaze sliding over Greg's lips before making eye contact, silently asking for permission. Greg dipped his head slightly.

Their lips met slowly, and the resulting kiss was tender and sweet though very short, for Mycroft's lung capacity was not what it once was. They broke for breath, both smiling broadly.

"You should really get some sleep," Greg said softly, the scene from earlier coming back to him. The man had been through hell that day, his body needed rest.

Mycroft nodded worriedly. "Please don't leave me though," he said, his voice childlike.

Greg snorted lightly. "Not bloody likely. I'm afraid you're stuck with me for a while Holmes."

Mycroft smiled and snuggled down, resting his head on Greg's chest.

"Good," he whispered.


	8. Chapter 8

_Hi guys! Sorry this one took so long, Season 2 sapped a lot of my Mystrade creativity but I'm slowly regaining it. This is the last chapter of this particular series, but I will of course continue to write for this fabulous pairing. Reviews are always adored._

_xoxo_

_~Bee_

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><p>Greg awoke several hours later as Mycroft shifted against him. It took him several moments to orient himself before the events from earlier floated into his conscious. He couldn't help but grin as he buried his face in Mycroft's thinning auburn hair.<p>

"Morning sunshine," he mumbled before planting a kiss on the pale scalp.

"Sorry to have woken you," Mycroft said softly, raising himself up so that they were eye-to-eye. Greg saw the grimace of pain as the man's weight shifted to his elbows. "I just seem to be in need of some pain medicine."

"Oh sure," Greg said, suddenly wide awake. "What do you need? I'll get it."

"No, no. I'm alright," Mycroft said with a wave of his hand, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up uneasily. He wobbled slightly and Greg caught his hand.

"Hey hey, easy now," Greg cooed, getting to his feet and looping an arm around his lover's waist. He saw the frustration behind Mycroft's eyes, the pain of the man who was used to being in control of everything was fighting to stay in control of his own body. He felt a tremor run through the politician's body and he pulled him in closer.

Together they slowly made the trek to the bathroom where Mycroft shakily opened the medicine cabinet and retrieved the bottles he needed. Greg drew a glass of water for him as his shaky hands fumbled with the childproof cap. With a sigh he finally managed to get it open and he quickly downed two of the greenish capsules. He replaced the lid and put the bottle back in the medicine cabinet, shutting the mirrored door. He started as he saw his reflection and tentatively reached a pale hand to touch the glass.

Greg's heart sank as Mycroft examined his illness-ravaged frame. He watched as the grey-blue eyes scanned over the hollow cheeks, the sallow skin and the patchy hair. Mycroft's shoulders sagged.

"Oh," he whispered.

"Hey," Greg said, grasping the frail shoulders and spinning the thin frame towards himself. "What's this then?"

A tear ran down Mycroft's cheek. "I'm dying Gregory."

"Like hell you are," Greg snarled. "Damnit Mycroft, you're the most stubborn man I know. Remember that time you made Kim Jong Il cry? Death's the one that's got a fight on his hands, I'd almost pity the grim reaper himself if he weren't trying to take away the fucking love of my life. You are not going to get away from me that easily. You are going to beat this thing Mycroft, d'you hear me?"

Mycroft closed his eyes and nodded, a few more tears working their way down his cheeks.

Greg pressed a kiss to his forehead. "I love you. And I still find you as devastatingly handsome as the day I met you."

Mycroft leaned forward and pressed his face into the crook of Greg's neck. Greg wrapped his arms around the man, allowing him to curl into his embrace. Mycroft was so used to taking care of everyone else; it was high time for him to let someone else take care of him.

"The growths do appear to be shrinking," the doctor said, examining a chart before him. "But we do worry about the cancer becoming resistant to the chemotherapy at this point, so I believe our best course of action is to begin radiation therapy as soon as possible."

Mycroft nodded quietly.

Greg looked between the doctor and Mycroft. "Well, that's good isn't it? For it to be getting smaller?"

The doctor sighed. "I hesitate to use the word 'good' at this point Mr. Lestrade, there's still quite a cluster of cancerous cells. For now it looks like we've stopped the growth and shrunk them some, but Mr. Holmes is still not where we would hope he would be at this point in his treatments."

Greg nodded as he slid his hand to intertwine his fingers with Mycroft's. Mycroft clutched the detective's calloused fingers gratefully. As the doctor continued to talk Greg ran his thumb in small soothing circles across Mycroft's wrist, not listening anymore. He was completely lost in his own thoughts until the doctor stood up.

"Well I'll leave you two alone for a moment to talk things over."

As soon as the door shut behind him Mycroft let out a heavy sigh.

"So do you want to leave me now? I wouldn't be angry," he said quietly.

"Hang on, what do you mean? He said it was shrinking," Greg said slowly.

Mycroft gave him an exasperated look. "Were you listening at all? He also told me it would be wise to have my affairs in order!"

"My, they have to say that," Greg said reassuringly.

Mycroft sighed again and started to pull his hand away. Greg yanked it back.

"Mycroft, damnit, I don't know how many times I have to say this! I love you and I am going to stay by your side for however long it takes you to beat this because you will beat it!" He was nearly shouting now. "And I'll fucking be right here for you afterwards too, until the day I die." He paused. "Because I'm going to go first, you've got to promise me that," he said hoarsely, tears welling up in his caramel-colored eyes. "Because I can't live without you My. I just…can't."

He broke down, sobs wracking his body. He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head, too upset to care about how he looked. Mycroft's fingers slid from his own and both of his elegant hands came up to cradle Greg's face. Greg opened his eyes to see the other man kneeling before him, tears in his eyes as well.

Mycroft tried to laugh softly but it came out as more of a choked sob. "I promise," he whispered.

Greg couldn't speak, he just nodded his head quickly and bit down hard on his lip.

They stayed like this for what could have been hours or merely minutes before the silence was finally broken.

Greg cleared his throat slightly. "Marry me."

Mycroft blinked. "Beg pardon?"

Greg took both of Mycroft's hands from his face and cradled them in his own, kissing them before he repeated himself. "Marry me."

Mycroft's jaw dropped slightly.

Greg went on. "I want you to know that there's no way in hell I would ever leave you, in sickness and in health and all that jazz and I can't think of any better way than-"

"Yes," Mycroft said quickly.

Greg raised his eyebrows. "Er, good," he said lamely. He chuckled slightly. "Although I think convention says that I should be the one kneeling right now."

Mycroft smiled. "Gregory, have we ever been what one might call 'conventional'?"

"God, I hope not," Greg said, pulling Mycroft into his lap for a tender kiss.

They were married three hours later. It would have been sooner, but Mycroft's doctors had insisted on hooking him up to an IV to prep him for radiation therapy which turned out to be an awful bother.

It was a tiny ceremony in the hospital chapel, just Greg, Mycroft, a minister, and Anthea to serve as witness. Anthea arranged the whole thing really, somehow managed to procure the paperwork and gold bands with a single text message.

As Mycroft said his vows, his left hand holding onto his IV pole and his right firmly entwined with Greg's, he couldn't help but feel blissfully happy. He had of course known he would marry Greg from the first moment they had locked eyes upon each other, but he couldn't have dreamed of a more perfect moment. He had entertained having the ceremony at Westminster Abbey (something a man in his position could easily do), the reception at Holmes Manor, a honeymoon in the South of France, but none of that compared to the knowledge that every word of their vows were true. Gregory Irving Lestrade had been there for him in sickness and in health, despite Mycroft's protests, and would continue to be there for him no matter what. Of that, Mycroft was positive.


End file.
